


Philosophy of Fear

by MarionThorne



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:31:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarionThorne/pseuds/MarionThorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out that all Pitch needs for a successful takeover is a little lesson on patience and philosophy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Philosophy of Fear

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, I'll stop spamming you with these tiny little things soon. = A=;

Pitch was positively furious with his mares once he had gotten over the shock that his own creations had betrayed him. They'd become unruly occasionally, but this far exceeded annoying and passed the threshold of infuriating. He'd wrangled the traitorous little bastards back into their stalls, locking the door behind him with a growl. Certain sand-textured creations wouldn't be getting any sustenance until he deemed them punished.

At first he'd decided he was merely sulking. He'd not arisen to the surface a single time since his defeat, choosing to meander throughout the Dark Realms, doing a little of nothing. He'd completely denied the overwhelmingly complete destruction of so much fear in such little time - apparently the Guardians were working hard at erasing the effects of his small taste of power, leaving the foolish little children with nothing but useless, dangerous hopes and dreams. Yet, eventually he admitted to himself that he was afraid of returning to the surface, and that was simply unacceptable. Of course the Guardians would still be on the look out, so he could not return yet... but when he did, he needed a plan.

But he needed to put much more thought into this one. He needed to think. So, he went where he always did when heavy thought process was required - the library.

The bookshelves went on for miles, covered in dust no matter how frequently he visited. It was hardly even a room, so spacious it was that the walls evanesced into the shadows above. 

At first, he did not even touch a book. He merely contemplated, slept in the dingy old chair, and contemplated some more. After what seemed like eternities, eternities in regards to the man who'd spent so long alone, he apparently came upon an idea that required him to go fetch a book. His library, so intune to his desires like the rest of his lair, summoned the book he desired to a position in the shelf near to him. It shimmered with a deep, toxic, green color until he touched it, where it returned to its original black, leather binding.

The grey letters stamped upon the front cover called amicably towards him, the first step in a solution that would lead him to his true position as king. After all, a king must thoroughly understand his subjects.

_Frygt og Bæven._

"Fear and Trembling. The margin between fear and faith... Yes, this should do nicely."

He called forth a myriad of such literature, ranging from ancient books that had not seen a human hand in millenia to the modern day contemplations on fear. Though he had commanded and studied fear ever since his own vague creation, these humans offered new insight not only on terror, but also on how it relates to other emotions.

_'...resignation is the last stage before faith.'  
'...the result of the author’s increasing irritation at the colonisation of our lives by fear. [...] those politicians who exaggerate the threat of terrorism to erode our human rights, and at the scare-mongering media which corrupt our understanding with sensationalised half-truths.'_

He learned much about what these particular humans were afraid of, and also how they thought they should deal with it. Well, a clever general does not make he who shares his secrets. "Silly humans. You cannot hide from fear... just a little longer, and soon you shall see."

And so Pitch Black slowly formulated his plan. This time, he would not move on the humans at his convenience, but wait for theirs. The fear of death was a common one, and the most common cause of mass death through humans was either plague, nature, or war. Nature was too short term, and the people of today were far too clean to succumb to plague like they had before. Pity. But, one thing they never did learn was how to refrain from killing each other. He had quite the hand in orchestrating the Red Scare in America - but now, he could do so much more.

He waited. He popped up to the surface every now and then, taking the form of a current much too powerful to scare children away from river's edge, or of a shadow in the form of the packs of wild animals in the wilderness. The children had become reckless in his leave. He hoped the Guardians were woeful for banishing him now that their precious little lights were snuffing themselves out.

It was fifty years after his defeat in Burgess that Pitch could finally walk among the surface to put his plan into action. When the Guardians had their eyes on him, he would prey after stupid children who thought that sword fighting with real swords was a good idea. The ones who believed that they really could fly, or that those little white tablets would be the sweetest candy. But slowly, oh so slowly - like an infection, a new plague, but purely of fear - he begin planting the seeds of paranoia into the minds of the populace. He began with world leaders and politicians, those whose fear spread most easily to others. Then, once those humans had spread the fear amongst their kin, he began with the general populace of the planet (the other nations are going to attack you, other races and religions and sexualities and everyone that is different is out to get you).

The Guardians hadn't even known what hit them. Humans had simply had another relapse in faith, they thought, with the war going on and materials again becoming scarce. Pitch had been helping keep them safe by ushering them away from danger. They thought these things, until they received the theoretical knife to the back.

It hadn't been a knife, really. More like a parasitical cage. Tendrils of fear that dug into their bodies and wound around their cores until the only good that came out was at his command - after all, fear was useless without a little good to act as its foil.

And now, finally, finally, Pitch Black reigned in the minds, hearts, and eyes of mankind after all these years of spite and loneliness. Now, people's eyes lingered upon him with horror, drawn to his billowing cloak of shadows, his nightmarish visage, and his crown of deer horn upon his head. The Nightmare King had returned, and this time, there would be no tendril of moonlight that could stop him.


End file.
